Night Tide

by Anna Burke

  Lillian laughed, remembering a summer several years ago when they’d been younger, Morgan had still been with her ex-fiancé, and a handsome lobsterman had done his best to get Lillian to go out with him each time they ran into him in town.

  “Sexy Sean?”

  Morgan moved her hips suggestively, and Lillian swatted her.

  “Stop it.”

  “Wait a minute. Back up. You hooked up in the clinic?”

  “Can we not talk about that?”

  “The blonde at the club. That was her, too, wasn’t it?”

  “Stormy invited her.”

  To Morgan’s credit, she didn’t look offended Lillian had kept this a secret from her.

  “Is this a ‘fuck and get it out of your system’ thing, or something else?”

  “Definitely the first option.”

  Morgan’s eyes suggested she saw through the lie, but she didn’t press it. This left her feeling, not the relief she’d expected, but a roiling uncertainty that Morgan’s worry was more than well-founded; it was rooted as deeply as the apple trees in the farmhouse orchard.

  “I don’t have feelings for her. It’s just . . . complicated.”

  “Sleeping with her isn’t going to make it any simpler.”

  “I know. But if I’m not . . .” Not what? Fucking her? Hooking up with her? Neither phrase adequately described what had happened the night before. “If I’m not doing whatever this is, then I want to actually murder her. I can’t find a middle ground.”

  “She’s only been here two months.”

  “And I haven’t been touched by anyone in over six, okay?” Her voice rose and broke, and silence radiated from the living room. “I know it’s a terrible idea. I know it’s going to end badly. And I’m doing it anyway.”

  Stevie and Angie applauded from the other room.

  “Then I’m here for you,” said Morgan, and Lillian gave her a shaky smile.

  “Thank you.”

  • • •

  Lillian didn’t text her that week, though they saw each other at work, and Ivy resisted the almost claustrophobic need to reach out. The unfamiliar feeling crawled under her skin. She’d gone years without texting Lillian Lee. Nothing had changed. She reread their previous exchange for the hundredth time, then shoved her phone into her pocket.

  “Ready for this next one, Dr. Holden?” asked Shawna.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Flurries skittered across the truck’s windshield as they pulled into the small dairy. An older man in a plaid jacket greeted them at the barn doors, and they followed him inside to the parlor. The heifer in question was an older Jersey cow with a dished nose and large, gentle eyes.

  “She’s my best milker,” said John.

  The problem was immediately evident. Swelling covered her left flank, and when she stepped into the stall and placed her hand on the hot, tight skin, probing a small, puckered area closer to the spine, she nodded.

  “Looks like an abscess. We should be able to take care of it for you today.”

  Shawna gave a subtle fist pump out of the farmer’s sight. “Is it gonna be a good one?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Normally the prospect of relieving an abscess would have cheered her up, too. They were relatively simple to treat, satisfying, and left the animal feeling immediately better. She wished she could apply the same practice to the hot, infected bubble of shame inside her.

  She’d fallen apart in front of Lillian. Fallen apart didn’t even halfway cover it. She’d spoiled their evening by breaking down, and it didn’t surprise her that Lillian hadn’t wanted to talk since.

  “Oh, wow,” said Shawna.

  Ivy feigned enthusiasm as she flushed the abscess and removed a foot-long splinter from the wound.

  “This would be the problem,” she said, tossing the stick on the ground.

  “She got out the other day. I checked her over, but she seemed fine. Just a scratch.” John’s mouth quirked down.

  “It was probably part of a longer piece, and this broke off inside. We got it out, which is what matters.”

  He patted the cow and murmured something into her brown ear that sounded like an apology. Shawna hid a smile. She wrote him a script for some antibiotics, provided he tossed the milk, and instructions for wound care, and had made it halfway down the aisle before a high-pitched squeak stopped her in her tracks.

  “What was that?” asked Shawna.

  “Goddamn barn cats,” said John. “People keep dumping them. I paid to have three fixed already this year.”

  “Sounded like a kitten.”

  Cows turned their heads in mild interest as John pushed his way past a stanchion, knelt, and straightened, cupping a calico scrap of fur in his weathered hands. Wordlessly, he held out the bundle.

  A scrawny kitten lay stunned in his palms, its foreleg twisted at a horrific angle.

  “Got stepped on.”

  Ivy took the kitten, who remained in shock, and tenderly investigated.

  “Humerus feels shattered.”

  “I can take care of it,” said John in a heavy voice. “Got a .22 in the feed room.”

  There had been a time in her life when the prospect of hearing a man talk about shooting a cat would have horrified her. Farm life, however, required tough choices, and she could tell that John, for all that he clearly loved his cows, was not going to shell out money to send an unwanted kitten to surgery.

  “We’ll take her with us.” At his concerned look, Ivy added, “the clinic will take care of it.”

  She could cover the cost of euthanasia out of pocket. The kitten mewled in her hands, and she cradled it closer to her body.

  “I can get you a box.”

  The kitten rode back to the clinic on the cab floor in a cardboard box lined with straw.

  “Poor thing,” said Shawna from behind the wheel.

  Ivy watched the frail ribs rise and fall. By its size, it could be anywhere from six to twelve weeks. Malnutrition made it hard to tell. The dilute calico coloring was more tortoiseshell than calico upon closer examination, and its worm-like kitten tail ended in a tuft of orange. Definitely infested with worms. And fleas. Maybe someone at the clinic would be interested in adopting it and paying to have the leg amputated, provided there was no internal damage. Cats did well as tripods, especially with front limb amputations.

  Tripod. Lillian’s dogs were tripods, which brought her thoughts back to their owner, just like everything else in this town. The kitten chose that moment to lift its head and stare at her, opening its mouth in a silent meow.

  One surgery, one flea and tick treatment, a douse of dewormer, several vaccines, and multiple doubts later, she arrived home with a small cat carrier in her hand. The clinic had provided a loaner litter box, and she’d taken a few cans of food for her newest mistake.

  “Darwin, I’m sorry.”

  Darwin sniffed the carrier suspiciously. He’d met many cats over the years, including Kara’s, but this unexpected delivery of feline fluff was clearly more than he’d bargained for, especially on a night when his dinner was late and he’d been denied his usual evening cuddles. She set the kitten up in the downstairs bathroom with towels, food, water, and a litter box it probably didn’t know how to use, and shut the door.

  IH: I just adopted a kitten.

  Her sister’s response was disturbingly fast. Madison always had her phone on her.

  MH: Pictures or it didn’t happen.

  She sent a photo of the kitten post-anesthesia, its tongue sticking out and its shoulder shaved and dotted with suture. A series of emojis assaulted her screen as Madison released the nonverbal equivalent of a squeal.

  MH: Wait. It’s missing something.

  IH: Can’t sneak anything past you.

  MH: What happened to its leg?!?!?!?!

  IH: Cow.

  MH: I will love it forever. It just became my new favorite sister. It is a girl, right? When can I come see her?

  IH: It’s a gir
l and you can come whenever.

  MH: See you in three hours.

  IH: It’s eleven o’clock.

  MH: Fine, this weekend?

  IH: Sure.

  MH: Love her all night long for me.

  IH: Definitely leaving her locked in the bathroom.

  MH: OMG YOU’RE A MONSTER

  Yawning, she clicked her phone screen off and headed upstairs. It buzzed in her hand. Expecting more accusations of animal abuse from Madison, who had never owned so much as a houseplant but loved lavishing attention on the pets of others, she glanced down at her screen.

  LL: What’s this about you taking home a tripod?

  Her heart should not have been capable of the kind of leap it gave as Lillian’s name lit up the screen. She fell backward onto her bed, still dressed, and curled around her phone. Darwin leapt up beside her, circled, and flopped down on her pillow.

  IH: It’s really creepy you already know about that.

  LL: Angie knows everything. Don’t ask me how; she doesn’t even work there anymore.

  She sent Lillian the same picture she’d sent her sister, suddenly overcome with affection for the kitten in her bathroom.

  IH: She could be yours.

  LL: Angie’s cat would eat her.

  IH: James? I like him. He’s sweet.

  LL: Only you would think so.

  Darwin sighed deeply behind her and she thumbed the screen, lingering over Lillian’s name.

  • • •

  “It’s too early for this much snow,” said Angie when Lillian entered the kitchen. Outside in the predawn black the wind howled, and snow plastered itself to the screens beyond the kitchen windows. She wasn’t sure whether Angie meant too early in the season or too early in the morning, but either way she agreed. At just past six o’clock, it was still dark as pitch, and Hermione shivered in her arms. She’d need to put her doggy snowsuit on before letting her outside.

  “Ew. What the hell is that white shit?” Stevie asked, emerging rumpled and bundled in a flannel bathrobe that dragged along the ground.

  “Did you steal that from Morgan?” Angie said, noticing the robe too.

  “It isn’t like she even sleeps here half the time. She won’t miss it.”

  That was probably true. Morgan spent more and more of her nights with Emilia, and if the winter kept on like this, she suspected Morgan’s inevitable move would come sooner than any of them had predicted. Cold weather made people want to nest. Unbidden, an image of Ivy’s bed danced in the steam rising off her coffee.

  “Speaking of sleepovers, what’s up with you and Ivy?”

  Stevie brightened at Angie’s question and folded up the sleeves of the robe to free her hands enough to grab a coffee mug of her own. The smell of Stormy’s coffee beans permeated the kitchen and lulled Lillian into a good enough mood to answer, aided by her under-caffeinated condition and the ease with which her own thoughts had already gone there.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you slept there last week after your date.”

  “I did.”

  “Be honest. Blondes do it better, don’t we?” said Stevie. Angie flicked her with hot coffee from her mug, and Stevie shielded herself with Morgan’s robe.

  “When are you seeing her again?” asked Angie.

  “Probably today at work.”

  “You’re so boring. Ask to go see her kitten.”

  “Yeah, ask if you can pet—”

  Angie clapped her hand over Stevie’s mouth, thankfully stopping the lewd comment at the gates. Stevie bit down, eliciting a squeal and a smack from Angie. Lillian topped off her coffee and reached into the foyer to grab Hermione’s snowsuit from its hook.

  “Sorry munchkin, but out you go.”

  Muffin, protected by several inches of thick fur, barreled out the back door. Hermione hunched on the doorstep and squinted accusingly up at Lillian as snowflakes landed on her snout. She nudged the little dog with her toe. “You have to go so we can check on the greenhouse. You like the greenhouse.”

  Hermione waded grudgingly into the snow. Stevie’s dog, Marvin, materialized from behind her and launched himself into the growing drifts. Lillian laughed at the outrage on Hermione’s face and wished she had thought to take a photo of it to send to Ivy.

  The impulse worried her. She’d shown restraint over the past week, sobered by Morgan’s concern. Rushing into something with Ivy was a potentially catastrophic idea, even if she’d found it hard to sleep every night since. Memories of Ivy crowded her thoughts.

  A gust of snow blew into her face, mercifully cooling her core temperature. Hermione skittered inside a moment later, and, shedding a fine mist of snow, the other two dogs followed. She shut the door on the blizzard and hoped neither Ivy nor Morgan got called out today, knowing full well that the hope was futile, and headed for the greenhouse.

  “Stevie, tell Morgan to drive safely,” she said when she returned to the warmth of the kitchen to peel the snowsuit off Hermione and replace it with an indoor sweater.

  “Yes, mom.”

  “When are you seeing Ivy again? And work doesn’t count.” Angie, undeterred, waited expectantly for an answer.

  “We don’t have anything planned.”

  “Why not?”

  “I invited her out last time. It’s her turn to make a move.”

  “And she hasn’t?” Angie’s face fell.

  “No.”

  “Hasn’t it, like, only been a week?” said Stevie.

  “Exactly. It’s been a week. I thought you said it went well?”

  “The words we overheard were ‘oh my god.’” Stevie’s imitation of Lillian’s response to Morgan’s question about whether or not the sex had been good was eerily accurate. She blushed.

  “Sometimes slow is good.”

  Angie snorted in disagreement.

  “Remember that we’ll kick her ass if you need us to,” said Stevie.

  “I can handle Ivy.”

  “I bet you can.”

  “Ange—”

  “What! I’m just happy you’re getting some action.”

  She suddenly wished her friends hadn’t brought Ivy up. It wasn’t that she’d expected Ivy to call, but Ivy had given no sign she wanted to see Lillian again. No text. No lingering at the clinic to catch her as she got off work. Lillian had been the one to reach out in the end when Angie had heard about Ivy’s kitten from Georgia.

  Why did you expect anything would be different this time?

  Of course Ivy hadn’t called. People called Ivy. She was probably used to men and women throwing themselves at her, eager for her attention and her body and her money. Lillian wasn’t that person. Spending two nights together didn’t tie her to Ivy in any way. Clearly Ivy didn’t think so, either, or she would have at least texted, instead of waiting for Lillian to make a move. Sure, Ivy had invited her to the island, but that was after Morgan had invited her to their Friendsgiving potluck, and it had been more of a challenge than a planned date.

  Date. That was the problem. She’d let Angie and Stormy talk her into inviting Ivy out for a date, and now here she was, feeling jilted and used. She blocked the image of Ivy sitting red-eyed and vulnerable on her bed. Maybe she’d misread things. Or maybe a part of her wanted to misread things, because the alternatives were too loaded. And what if Ivy hadn’t reached out because she was embarrassed about breaking down? She knew how she would feel if Ivy had caught her in a similar emotional state. Her anger dimmed. Perhaps it fell on her to reassure Ivy she cared.

  Except the last time Ivy had opened up to her, she’d pushed her away with a viciousness that had left a ring of scar tissue around her heart. Going through that again wasn’t an option.

  If Ivy wanted her, she could damn well come and get her.

  • • •

  Madison arrived that weekend with a bottle of champagne and a crushing hug. Ivy reeled from the embrace and held her sister at arm’s length.

  “What’s up, Mads?”

  “Y
our sister,” Madison said, drawing out her words for effect, “made partner.”

  “Oh my god!” This time, it was Ivy clasping Madison tightly, and she even managed a squeal of excitement. “That’s huge!”

  “I’m the youngest partner the firm’s ever had.”

  “And you’re a woman.”

  “Breaking that glass ceiling, baby. Speaking of glasses . . .” Madison waved the bottle of champagne.

  Ivy pulled two flutes out of the cupboard and braced herself for the pop of the cork. Darwin darted after it, and she pried it from his jaws while Madison poured them healthy servings of bubbly.

  “To you,” Ivy said as she raised her flute in a toast.

  “And to you, for moving close enough to celebrate with me.”

  “Right now, I’m glad I did.”

  “Right now?” Madison’s eyes narrowed, and Ivy kicked herself for the slip.

  “Want to see the kitten?”

  Her diversion worked. Madison set her drink on the counter and looked around expectantly.

  “She’s in here. She’s not supposed to move too much yet, so I have to keep her in the bathroom.”

  The kitten chirruped the moment the door opened and hopped toward Ivy, her cone unbalancing her.

  “Oh she is the cutest little gremlin. You have to keep her. What’s her name?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  Madison dropped to the floor, heedless of the spilled cat litter, and let the kitten pounce on her fingers. “How are you feeling?”

  She looked down at her sister, who was still petting the kitten, and shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Like, okay okay, or okay as in you feel like shit but don’t want to tell me?”

  “Can we talk about you being made partner?”

  “My job is much less important than my only sister’s health.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I knew I’d have a flare-up when I moved, and I’m managing.”

  “How’s work going?”

  “So far it’s been good.” She didn’t mention her suspicions that Shawna knew something was wrong, or that Morgan had seen her fall in the barn, or that she was sleeping with a coworker.